The room is small, yet larger than my breath.
It holds the hush that gathers after cries,
A clock that taps its knuckles against death,
And asks no questions, offers no replies.
The mirror keeps a rumor of my face,
A fading watermark of who I’ve been;
I trace the outline, searching for a trace
Of something sturdier beneath the skin.
The mind can make a corridor of night
So long it swallows every distant door;
It names the dark as permanent, as right,
And calls the weary heart to want no more.
Yet even now, a thin, persistent thread
Of morning tugs: not gone—just faintly spread.